A is for Always
by paradiso
Summary: Mac and Stella. From A to Z.
1. A is for Always

**A is for Always**

The day whizzes by, and Stella is left disoriented by its haste. She'd intended on taking her time, wandering aimlessly down hallways that no one uses, finishing up the paperwork that wasn't due for a week, stopping by Mac's office ever so often to see if he'd finally hung up on Sinclair.

Well, two out of three isn't so bad.

--

She's startled when, on a peculiar Monday morning, he catches her in his office before both of their shifts, finishing up the last of _his_ paperwork.

"Stella?" he stands in the doorway, unsure of what to make of the sight.

She attempts a smile, to shrug him off, "Hey Mac. I was just leaving."

She hopes that that will be enough to distract him from the three weeks worth of paperwork that he'd been procrastinating about all these days.

"What are you doing here?" he asks instead, unfazed, eyes focused on the stack of paper.

But she says nothing, so he approaches her, his eyes on the desk, on the files, dated and stamped with the utmost care and precision. Exactly the way he would have intended it, except that she'd done everything for him.

"Stella... " he can't look at her, "You didn't have to-"

He's cut off by the shock that vibrates throughout his entire body when she lifts a finger to touch his face. She's done it before, but it's different this time. Before, those moments when she betrayed professionalism in favor of being human for once, were embedded in between chunks of work-related conversation. That way, they weren't that awkward.

Not now. This is different. She's taken everything out of context. Here she is, Monday morning, the lab transformed into a peaceful sanctuary. There are no trace results to disguise her feelings. No suspects or victims for him to hide behind.

But there's protocol, there's always protocol. And for once it's not enough to help him push her away. _Maybe_, he thinks, and lets himself move just a few millimeters into her touch, maybe this is the way it's supposed to be. Maybe they can live with this. He sure as hell _wants _to live with this, with her. Everywhere. Always.

She smiles in response, and suddenly he's sure. This is it. This is it for them, there's nothing that can ever change this. This is the way it's going to be forever. He loves her, she loves him, it's perfect, they're perfect, just a little bit closer-

The phone rings. It's Sinclair.

**fin**


	2. B is for Byzantium

**B is for Byzantium**

"Where was this?" asks Stella, tracing the edge of a dusty picture frame.

Mac sets down a cardboard box and glances over his shoulder at the object in her hands, "Disney World, 1997. I'd never been."

Stella turns her body away from him entirely, so that even if he looks at her again, he won't be able to see the way she's gliding her fingertips over the glass of the frame over and over.

"Never?" she asks, her eyes travelling all over the photo, taking in his face, Claire's warm brown eyes, and the blue-and-gold boat that they're frozen on. She wishes they were still there.

"No," Mac replies as he inspects the another stack of boxes before casually splitting one of them open, "Claire wouldn't let it drop when she found out."

"Right," Stella sets the frame down on the otherwise empty wall-unit that he's had shipped over from the old apartment.

She's glad that they've come to this now. Maybe it's not exactly where she wants them to be, Mac and herself. But it's close. So close, they're so close, she wants to stay like this forever.

"I got really interested in boats after that," says Mac, coming up behind her and looking into the frame himself.

"Oh yeah?"

"We always talked about getting our own."

"A boat? You and Claire wanted a boat?"

"Like I said, we talked about it. But then I got the job, and she absolutely loved the city, you know? We still thought about it sometimes, but things happened. You can't have everything."

"No," Stella knows that better than anyone. Except maybe for him.

Then his hands are on her waist, and they're both still staring at that picture, "This is nice," he says.

She smiles and drops her arms to her sides so that her wrists can brush his as he pulls her closer to him. And here on the sixth floor, she feels like she's on top of the world, looking forward towards some kind of paradise. Like their pilgrimage is coming to an end, and she's always loved that word, _pilgrimage _because somewhere there's always been a rumble of wanderlust inside of her, someone he's always loved, and in turn it's that single part of her that only ever thinks of him.

"Where are we going?" she asks, leaning into him, feeling the imprint of his badge press into her back.

He doesn't know. Maybe he has a vague feeling, but he can't know for sure.

But he's going. They're going.

**fin**


	3. C is for Criminology

**C is for Criminology**

She can't ever remember having ever felt this way in her entire life.

Not when, for the very first time, she learned of how she'd been thrown away like a piece of garbage as a baby. Not when she'd been dragged up a set of stairs and had her hands tied behind her back with a phone cord. Not even when her best friend married some other woman.

She's practically shaking with... with something. Something she can't describe because it's so completely new, so completely awful and horrid, that it makes her want to scream. It's something akin to rage, pervasive, but slightly more maddening. And when she's finished tearing apart her bedroom, she finds herself unable to grow any more mad without losing herself forever, so she sinks to the floor and does the only thing she thinks she's good for anymore.

Those tears. How she hated those tears. How she hated herself when she'd look up at the clock hours later and realize suddenly that she didn't have any idea how she'd ended up crying in the first place. And at that point, she gets up, smoothes her hair (only to have it bounce back up again) and resolves to go to work. To clear her head.

It's only when _he _points it out that she begins to suspect just what this emotion is. If it can even be called an emotion. Sure, emotions make things complicated (she's reminded of that every time she looks into his eyes) but this, this is just tearing her apart, and before she can stop herself, she breaks down and tells him all about it.

"It's so... " her fingers itch to tighten around her own throat, "Can you believe it? Can you believe it Mac? The horrible things that people do, that _we _do, Mac. That we _could _do if we really wanted to."

"But we wouldn't," he reasons softly into her hair, even though he knows that she's beyond reason, almost above reason, "You wouldn't, Stella."

"But..." she thinks of Diakos, of Frankie, of the countless other times she's held a gun to somebody's head, a life in her hands.

It's terrifying, playing God. She doesn't even want to imagine what the real thing must be like. Or is _this_ the real thing?

She can hear all the words from the seminar at the university waging war inside of her mind, and feels alone in an instant. What the hell is Mac saying anyway? Of course she would kill someone, she has killed people before... people who've killed other people. Who've hurt other people. So what's to stop someone else from killing her?

It doesn't make any sense at all, so she wonders how anyone can turn this into a field of research. An exact science than can be understood and passed on from generation to generation. There's nothing human about it, nothing humane about it, and she wants nothing to do with it anymore.

"Maybe I should just quit," she mumbles, only for him.

It barely registers inside his brain, he just holds her tighter and doesn't let go, not even when she stops shaking.

So maybe she is denying her fate. Maybe she is ignoring her calling. But at least she can have some peace with herself. At least then, she wouldn't have a gun attached to her hip all the time, at least then she wouldn't be attached to her gun. At least then, she wouldn't have to tread above her own guilt at Sunday mass. It wouldn't be so bad... not so bad at all. As long as she isn't shooting anyone, isn't hurting anyone, isn't killing anyone.

Except maybe herself, a little.

**fin**


	4. D is for Denial

**D is for Denial**

When she isn't thinking, when she isn't sure what she's feeling, she invariably ends up at his door.

He's never surprised to see her, not even when it's two in the morning and he hasn't slept in eighteen hours - and there she is, right in front of him, in exactly the same shape. Too tired to sleep. Too broken to do anything else but visit.

Sometimes they talk until the morning, sometimes there's no talking at all. Like tonight, when they're sitting on opposite ends of his living room. She shifts so that she's sitting cross legged on the floor, gazing up at him with eyes that sparkle despite the dim lighting.

He wants to touch her, just a little bit. Just to graze his fingers across her forehead, maybe trace a line from her temple to her earlobe, or even a little bit further, maybe to the nape of her neck. Maybe while his fingers idle there, he'll even take a single golden curl into his palm, just for the feel of it. Just to feel anything. He hasn't touched her in so long, and it's been forever since anyone's touched him, any part of him.

And there she is, still looking up at him, still open to all the possibilities they've shut out of their lives on so many occasions, so many nights spent just talking or... just not talking.

He looks away again, "We've got ten hours tomorrow on the clock, I need some sleep," he says, trying to make it sound personal.

Referring to the job makes it even more harsh. Suddenly they're colleagues again. She wants to scoff, _most_ colleagues don't have sleep overs, one, two, sometimes three times a week.

"Maybe I should just go," she says and gets up a little too quickly.

A wave of... something, crashes into her, its strength having been pent up the entire day as if anticipating this moment of weakness and insecurity.

"Easy," he says, and his hand goes to her waist.

His thumb brushes against a little bit of exposed skin that's peeking out from beneath her top. Then it hits her like a fatal blow.

She isn't going anywhere.

She can hardly see him through the darkness that's befallen them again, so she squints, but that only hurts her eyes. Then she realizes, that it isn't just her eyes that hurt, it's the back of her head, the back of her body and she grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him towards herself, slamming into the wall as she does so.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

And a shock runs through him because he realizes suddenly that he's said those words against her lips, which is a pretty good indication that she is _not_ okay. And the only chance that they'll ever be okay together at work, is if he stops this from happening right now.

But if he does, they might never be okay again, in every other sense of the word. So he finds himself at an impasse, feels himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. And she can relate, her back against his living room wall, her front, her soul, pressed up against him.

"Stella," he manages when her tongue leaves his mouth for a second.

"Mac," there it is again.

"Stella, we can't."

"Yes," she grips the back of his head, her fingers scratching his scalp lightly the way he'd wanted to scratch at hers earlier, "We can."

It's supposed to begin from there on, and it pains him to think that in a sense it does begin between them, the beginning of the end maybe. But he can't bring himself to think of endings, of apocalypses, of morning-afters, when he's with her, and they're moving together against a wall, through the hallway, finally in his bed.

He tries to let every second of it burn into his mind the way he's always imagined it would. But it doesn't. Instead, it goes by so fast that he's left reeling for hours afterwards, his eyes closed tight and his heart thudding and his mind doing everything it can to keep him awake. He wants to make sure that she doesn't leave now. She can't leave now. She can't leave him now.

"This doesn't change anything," she says and it's just the way he's always feared it would be with her, if it ever _was_ with her, and tonight, it has been. With her.

He's shared himself completely, and entirely with her, and no sooner than that has she rolled over on her side and is as good as several galaxies away.

But he shouldn't be surprised really. This isn't the first time she's shown up at his apartment, late and tired and unfeeling. And tomorrow it won't be the first time he's woken up, cold and alone with a vague recollection of her trembling lips and experienced flesh beneath his the night before.

She says it again, the same way she always does, and he pretends to agree, as per usual, "This can't happen again."

But it does.

**fin**


	5. E is for Empty

**E is for Empty**

When it happens, she feels like she's never been hit so hard before by anything.

What's worse is the strangeness of it all. By way of nature, the world is a bizarre, confusing place, and very little makes sense to her in the beginning. In the end she thinks there isn't really such a thing as _sense_ anyhow. Then she looks at the clock and realizes that it's been a whole four minutes since she heard the news and since he isn't in sight yet, she isn't moving fast enough.

She can always find him. There's always a pattern to his movements, and she's can map it out perfectly in her head. Today he's in the heart of city, his head spinning, the world spinning.

Backwards, maybe.

She's thought it would have stopped. She thought that everything had stopped when the towers fell, that everything and anything she'd ever known about him had just frozen, like his soul, suspended in between the past and the future with almost nothing in between.

But no.

The world just keeps going, going in a completely different direction, and while everyone else conforms to its movements, he's knocked off his feet and is crawling all over the street, checking beneath the giant slabs of concrete for the only way out of hell.

She spots him from several feet away, notices how disoriented he is, and then begins to feel dizzy herself. Then they really _do_ freeze. But they're the only ones trapped, and the world goes on rotating on its axis, threatening to leave them behind to float in outer space. She can almost feel the city passing through her as she stands there, hand extended towards him, trying to reach him so that they can do this together.

A scream.

But there's no way for him to hear her. There's just nothing, nothing at all. Nothing for the sound to hit and bounce off of, and she realizes then that she can't be there for him. No one can. He's alone now, and there's nothing.

**fin**


	6. F is for Finality

**F is for Finality**

In the end, there is the two of them, together.

She's looking out the window of the apartment and wanting to fall like the snow out there, into the street and dissolve on the pavement. It's too warm for there to be any sort of accumulation now. It's a hopeful sign, but she knows all too well not to be deceived by false hopes.

She knows that this is the end.

The end of an era, it feels, even though its only been a few odd years since they were thrown together in a New York City crime lab. Back then it was so simple, before they became so involved with one another, before they became caught on each other snares. The worst part was, now, here, when she can finally see the end approaching, she tries to pull away from them - from him - and pieces of her tear and break off. The core of her escapes from the lab, but there are bits that are still trapped there, fossilized around whatever memories they were originally attached to.

She wonders if she's going to keep in touch with them, and if so, to what extent. Every once and awhile she stops by Lindsay's place, sees how the baby's doing. Sometimes Danny's around, and whenever he is, they try and maintain an awkward conversation while Lindsay feeds the baby. But it always ends with some abrupt comment on the past, and then suddenly Stella remembers that there's some place that she has to be. An empty apartment that just beckons to her.

Sheldon is easier. Even after he split from the lab, Stella knew that little had changed between them. He still calls on her birthday, around Christmas time, and some days in between to see if she's up for coffee. He's still the impassioned individual that he has always been, and that's one of the few things Stella will cherish about her old life forever.

Sid's a little more difficult, but not of his own accord. He's got his own life, a wife and three kids that are all, unfortunately, going through college at the same time. So he's got little time to spare for Stella, and she almost appreciates that it's because he's such a dedicated father.

She can't even remember the last time she's spoken to Adam, but she thinks of him often, wonders who he's becoming, wonders if he's found whatever it is he's looking to find. Sometimes, just for Adam, she prays.

"Hey," Mac reaches over and touches her palm with his, "You're off somewhere."

"I was praying."

He looks up at her, his head nudging against the middle of her thigh, eyes still clouded over from a recent slumber, "Adam?"

"Yes," she chuckles and comes back to him, tracing a delicate finger along his jaw line, "I think about him a lot. I think about all of them."

"It hasn't been so long. Have you spoken to any of them recently?"

"Sheldon. You?"

"Ran into Don yesterday, actually."

"Flack," she laughs, shaking her head and examining the smile that begins to creep slowly across his face, "You're still close... "

"Probably closer than ever," he moves back a little so his head is actually in her lap, "You know what he told me?"

"What?"

"He said, 'Mac, you look really great. I'm so happy for you.'"

"Did he now?"

"Yep," he moved again, apparently restless after his nap.

He sat up and let her lean back into him, wrapping one arm protectively around her, in a pose that was both innocent, yet deeply intimate at the same time.

"I thought they would always be a part of me too," he continued, "And then I realized that there is no 'me' in this picture anymore. They're a part of _us_ Stella, that's what this means. This is who we've become."

She was silent for a moment, taking in what he was saying and trying to understand it properly. He'd done that to her, made her less impulsive over the years, put more thought into her, put more of _him_ into her. And that's what convinced her that he was right. There was no _him_ or _her_, no Mac or Stella.

They were Mac _and_ Stella now. They were together, even in the end. Especially in the end.

"You're right," she said, a smile spreading across her face, "Us."

He brought his lips to her neck, traced his tongue over her jugular and so as to assure her the end, was going to last longer than forever. And in that sense, it wasn't really the end at all.

**fin**


End file.
